Matryoshka
by DanieB2
Summary: Beneath one deep, another deep opens.


_Synopsis: Slightly AU. When Olivia Benson and Elliot Stabler go undercover at a prestigious gated community, they learn that appearances are almost always deceiving. _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. All SVU characters are the property of Dick Wolf._

**Matryoshka**

**Prologue**

He should have been in Auto Theft, because a part of him got off on the chase.

The squeal of rubber meeting asphalt. The tremble of the yielding accelerator beneath his foot. The twist of the fishtailing chassis. The blaring of horns and the challenge of darting between oncoming vehicles in midday Manhattan traffic. It was a rush of adrenaline not unlike a shot of heroin straight to the vein.

Two car lengths ahead, the silver bumper of a Honda Accord vanished around a sharp corner into an alley.

The muscles in Elliot Stabler's shoulders tightened as he slammed on the brakes and cranked the wheel to the right in pursuit. The acrid odor of melting rubber wafted in through the sedan's ventilation system as the car bounced over the raised sidewalk, the bumper gouging the concrete roughly. His seatbelt constricted on impact, slicing his skin through his suit jacket but holding him firmly in place.

The alley was narrow, with only minimal excess space on either side of the vehicles. The fleeing Accord careened from side to side in the tapered brick corridor, dodging dented garbage bins and rusted fire escapes. The revving of the twin motors echoed deafeningly and his ragged breathing was lost in the cacophony. Dislodged debris kicked up by the racing tires reduced visibility and created a ghostly, dangerous fog.

"Come on, come on, come on," Elliot muttered impatiently as he leaned forward, eyes intent on his prey. His foot was heavy on the gas pedal already but he applied more pressure anyway, ignoring the speedometer's trembling needle. The maroon sedan shot forward reluctantly at the exact moment the Accord slowed, its brake lights gleaming like demonic eyes. Lightning quick, the Accord veered to the left and Elliot swore as the right side of the sedan scraped against an outcropping in the brown brick wall. The side mirror snapped off, banging against the passenger side for good measure before being left unceremoniously behind.

Why the hell couldn't the department spring for a car that was a little more . . . agile.

Bumper to bumper, they raced. A drop of sweat, nestled comfortably at the base of Elliot's spine, suddenly dislodged and meandered under the collar of his shirt. The sensation distracted him, irritated him, and he swiped at his nape with a thick hand. On the dashboard, an orange light sprung on and Elliot glanced down to see the gas light winking at him mockingly.

Dammit. He knew he should have filled up before coming on shift. Not that he could have anticipated a high speed chase. The driver of the Accord was far from a "Special Victim".

The narrow alley cut through a series of dilapidated buildings. With each approaching cross street Elliot held his breath, praying that an innocent civilian wouldn't suddenly decide to step out into his path.

His conscience was guilty enough most days; he didn't need more blood on his hands.

Only after he had passed the fourth cross street did Elliot notice the duo of halogen headlights in his rearview mirror. How long they had been lurking there, he couldn't have said. The phantom vehicle was a distance back but gaining quickly. Cursing, Elliot jerked the wheel to the right to avoid an errant box. An uneasy sensation curdling in the pit of his stomach, he drove the struggling sedan harder, desperate to avoid getting boxed in between enemy vehicles.

A mile or so ahead, the morose darkness of the laneway began to subside, replaced instead by the gloomy gray of an overcast New York day. Heart pounding in his chest, Elliot tried to steady his sweaty palms as they slid slightly on the hard plastic wheel. They were closing in fast on the end of the alleyway, which meant in a few short moments the cars would burst out onto a busy New York street. He would need all his wits about him to negotiate the startled motorists who waited just over that threshold.

As long as the other car crashed first . . .

Behind him tires squealed, and the sleek black Nissan that had been gaining on him disappeared down the final laneway before the larger street. He couldn't see the driver through the tinted windows, but that was the least of Elliot's concerns. He was just thankful not to have the other car breathing down his bumper anymore.

A dip in the concrete sent the car airborne for a moment, the undercarriage scraping again the littered sidewalk. A shower of sparks reflected in the remaining side mirror and Elliot held his breath as shocked pedestrians dove for cover in his peripheral vision. Ahead of him, the Accord's driver struggled to get his skidding vehicle under control, and Elliot made up the remaining distance between them quickly, the sweet taste of victory on the tip of his tongue.

Were it not for his seatbelt, the impact would have sent Elliot straight through the windshield.

He was just about to stomp his foot hard on the gas when the black Nissan that had been trailing him moments before crashed into the rear of the car, sending it spinning out of control. Sweat flew off his broad forehead and splashed against the side window as Elliot's body jerked in the seat, the lap belt ripping the air from his lungs. A kaleidoscope of multi-colored cars flashed before his eyes as he slammed on the brakes, dimly aware of the series of horns that blared inches from his window. The battered sedan finally came to a screeching halt, leaving a trail of blackened rubber in its wake.

The adrenaline kicked back in almost immediately, overriding the shock.

Releasing his seatbelt, Elliot threw open the car door, his right hand flying to his side holster. He had pulled out his service revolver in record time, but the driver of the Nissan was faster. When he spun to face his assailant, Elliot's eyes saw nothing but the barrel of the gun pointing at his chest.

It took only a second for him to recover, only a brief pause before he was able to level his own gun at the enemy and call out a warning of "NYPD!"

A call that was instantly echoed with a similar sentiment but a different acronym.

"FBI! Drop your weapon!"


End file.
